


Nothing Looks the Same in the Light

by romanticalgirl



Series: Running to Stand Still [1]
Category: Dawson's Creek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 7/11/01</p>
    </blockquote>





	Nothing Looks the Same in the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 7/11/01

He'd been in California for less than a week and he hated it. Despised it with a fiery passion stronger than he'd ever felt for anything. Even film. Even Joey.

California - LA - was going to eat him alive. No one here seemed to care about anything he'd accomplished. It reminded him of the first time he'd met Nikki Green.

Derivative. Childish. Uninspired.

He'd gotten slight approval for "Sea Creature from the Deep," but it was outweighed by the criticism and condescension toward his storytelling skills since he'd obviously neglected the sexual tension between both Pacey and Joey AND Pacey and Jen. If he'd been a true visionary, he'd have made the creature a metaphor along the lines of what Whedon had done in the first two seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Sometimes he really hated Pacey.

Shutting the door of his dorm, Dawson sank onto his bed and closed his eyes. He could see Joey so clearly. Asking him to stay. The thought, the phrasing, made him smile. He'd had to stare at that fucking wall for a month and a half last summer. Had to see those blood red letters every day.

She never asked Pacey to stay. But she'd asked him.

Of course, even he could see that she still had feelings for Pacey. But in her new life at Worthington, the only thing she and Pacey would have in common would be Capeside.

And sex, his brain reminded him.

But sex was nothing. What had Gretchen called it? Mechanics.

He could deal with mechanics.

"Hey, wunderkind." His roommate burst into the room, tossing his books on his own bed. "Great presentation in class today. The whiny self-reverence? Really added a touch of authenticity."

Brian was built like a football player and as articulate as anyone he'd ever met. He was also, unfortunately, in his film class. "Look, Brian…"

"But you're Mr. Hot Shit in, where are you from? Mudslide?"

"Capeside."

"Capeside. Right. Tell me, they ever seen a real movie there? Or did they think your blatant Blair Witch knock-off was or-ig-i-nal?"

"Don't you have some computer geek to abuse?"

"Hell, no. A computer geek could come in handy when I need special effects in a couple of years. You, my fellow film-geek, although I hesitate to claim brotherhood, you're not going to be good for much of anything by then." Brian paused and considered Dawson carefully. "Well, maybe you'll be somebody's best boy." He grabbed his jacket and headed out of the room. "Later."

Dawson really, really hated California.

 

~**~  
Dawson waited until the rest of the class left before making his way up to the professor's desk. He stood in front of it, shifting nervously until the professor finally looked up and acknowledged him. "Yes, Mr…?"

"Leery."

"Leery."

"I have a question."

"So I gathered." He crossed his arms over his chest. "As you're standing before me without any prompting on my part. So why don't you get to the point?"

"Have you ever made a movie?"

"What kind of ridiculous question is that, Mr. Leery?"

"You said one of us would make it. You said 80 percent of us should stay at home and stare in trepidation at even our home video cameras."

"How imbecilic do you assume me to be, Mr. Leery? Would you also like to mention the age-old adage of those who cannot do, teach? Because I'm more than willing to be further insulted by your meandering remarks."

"That's not…" Dawson blew out his breath. "I know your job is to put it all in perspective, keep us from thinking that we're the next big thing…"

"Which apparently hasn't worked in your case."

"Okay, I'm just going to go." Dawson started to walk off, heading for the door.

"Mr. Leery?"

He stopped, "Yes?"

"Film school isn't about making you the next big thing, and despite what you think, it's also not about discouraging you from becoming exactly that."

"Really, because I'm finding that hard to believe."

"Every single one of you kids comes in here thinking you're the best think to ever pick up a camera. And they're…you're all good. You have to be to get this far. But Hollywood, even the independent scene is about lying, cheating, deal making. It's about begging and fucking and fucking over. You've got blinders on, Mr. Leery. Blinders built by bullshitters who have encouraged you to follow your dreams." He dug through the pile of papers on his desk, finding the script Dawson had optioned from the screenwriting class. "You knew Brooks. And he was easy on you, Leery, because he was a crusty old man with a heart of gold who knew he was dying and didn't want to do it alone. But he would have done you a much better service if he'd told you to stay home."

"You don't think I can cut it?"

"I don't give a shit if you're on the podium accepting a goddamned Oscar next year, Mr. Leery. But I can tell you this right now; you need to stop worrying about whether or not Hollywood likes you. Hollywood doesn't give a fuck about you. And, for as long as you continue to make self-reverential crap, Hollywood will continue to not give a fuck about you."

"Are you done?"

"You asked."

"Right. I asked to be belittled."

"Mr. Leery, your first movie showed marginal talent. You showed potential that was encouraging in a fifteen year old. You missed themes, but given your probable life experience in that time, it's understandable, forgivable. Your second submission, which I, mercifully for your sake and that of the class, did not show, was self-indulgent shit worse than anything Prince ever inflicted upon us. Your Brooks documentary was heartfelt and had some of the life experience that was sorely lacking in…And don't," he held up his hand as Dawson started to speak. "Get me started on your Blair Witch take off. Not only have I seen way too many of them, but yours had gaping holes that were inexcusable."

"Do I think you have talent, Mr. Leery? Possibly. Do I think you're brilliant? Certainly not. Do I think you can do some semblance of justice to this script? I'm not holding my breath."

"Thanks." Dawson turned abruptly and started back toward the door.

"Do I think that whatever film you make, this experience here will actually give you something to draw on and give whatever you do in the future some depth? Yes, I do. Life is not a small town soap opera when it's on the big screen, Mr. Leery. It's something bigger, something more. Learn that and maybe you'll make something worth watching."

~**~  
Joey stared out at the creek, watching the sunlight dapple the water. "You know, this gloomy visage of yours is really bad for business."

"Sorry, Bess. I just can't seem to muster anything resembling a smile."

"Your boyfriend left town and your best friend is 3000 miles away. I'm not asking for elation. Just something more enthusiastic than suicidal."

"You know what I keep going over in my head? He risked everything for me. He did everything right. Am I so bad, so needy that this was the inevitable end? I don't think I'm the person he said I was, Bess. But…but am I wrong?"

"No, Jo. You're not wrong. Pacey's reasons had everything to do with Pacey and nothing to do with you."

"Except that who I am and what I want are the opposite of what Pacey has and thinks he deserves."

"But that's Pacey, Joey."

She shrugged, tears she tried to suppress slipping out from under her lashes. "I just don't know how to stop loving him, Bessie. And I don't know how he stopped loving me." She wiped her eyes and sniffed. "I thought that the dinner at Worthington…I thought it would work out and instead, it just reinforced everything he felt."

"You're about to start a whole new life, Joey. Maybe this is for the best."

"Maybe," she sighed, thinking about the last time she'd cried on these docks, the first time she'd acknowledged Pacey was, above all else, her friend. That moment had been the start of something. "Maybe as soon as I'm out of Capeside, at Worthington…maybe…"

"Hey, Jo?" Bodie stuck his head out the door. "Phone call."

"Must be Friday at six." She got to her feet and hurried back to the house, taking the phone from Bodie's extended hand. "Hello?"

There was no answer, just the rough crackle of a long distance line.

"Hello?" A thrill of dread mixed with desire raced through her. "Pacey?"

"Jo?" Dawson's voice came over the line. "Sorry. My phone's been acting up."

"Hey, Dawson." Her smile faded as she walked over to the porch railing.

"It's Friday. Three o'clock."

She nodded, taking comfort in familiarity. "So it is."

"How's Capeside?"

"The same. California?"

"You know how young girls move out here in pursuit of fame and fortune and end up bitter, disillusioned prostitutes?"

"Uh…sure."

"Their life looks really good right now. What kind of addiction do you think I should develop?"

"I've heard heroin is good." She suggested. "Expensive though."

"Damn. You think I could just mainline NyQuil?"

"It seems like the perfect Dawson Leery drug." She settled on the chair and stared out at the water. Dawson was looking at a completely different ocean. So was Pacey. How had it happened that they'd all drifted so far apart? "What's going on?"

"Nothing much."

"Roommate still giving you trouble?"

Bessie walked past her into the B&B, shaking her head as she did so. Joey ignored her as she heard the kitchen window open, the soft sounds of the radio floated out through the screen. She found herself humming along, blushing when she recognized the tune.

She and Pacey had made love to this song, the soft bass underlying their movements as they'd moved and loved and laughed in his bed, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.

"…but I'll survive."

She shook herself out of her reverie. "I know you will. You always do."

"Speaking of surviving, how's the rest of the gang? Heard from the big gay road trip?"

"They're in Vegas. With Drue Valentine."

"We've got to find that guy someone else to latch onto."

"They're having a great time, from what I hear. Jen called a couple of days ago."

"And the other?"

"Have you met anyone out there?"

"Nobody like you, Jo."

She smiled sadly, knowing that both of them were thinking of the question she wasn't answering. "It's tough to find a too tall girl from the wrong side of the creek in the middle of the desert. Or so I hear."

"You'd be amazed at what some of these girls are on the wrong side of." Dawson laughed, but Joey could still hear the sadness, the loneliness in it. "I miss you, Jo."

"It's mutual."

"Right. Well, the wonderful world of actors calls to me. You wouldn't believe how demanding these people can be, considering they're college students."

"Get used to it, Mr. Director. When you're working with all the big names who actually get paid to be bossed around by you, this is all going to be a happy memory."

"Great. If this is something I'm going to look back on with fondness, the rest of my life is going to be a big ball of abject misery."

"Probably. Have fun."

There was a long pause. "I'm sure he's thinking about you."

She shook her head. "I'm sure he isn't. I'll talk to you next week, Dawson. Have fun with your AC-tors."

"Night, Jo."

She nodded; wondering why she bothered when she knew no one could see her, knew there was no one to watch. "Night, Dawson."

~**~  
Dawson lay back on the bed, listening to the audio track of the movie, wincing at some of the dialogue. He looked to the side, and Brian's mouth was moving, so he sighed and pulled the headphones off. "What?"

"I was asking what you planned to say in you Oscar speech, Wunderkind. You plan on giving credit to God or Ben Affleck?"

"Surely you've found something more interesting to do than talk to me in the two months we've been here?"

"Nothing else is as interesting as you, Wunderkind. I've learned that even in the short time I've known you." Brian's voice remained serious, the underlying mocking tone barely noticeable. Brian's lashes fluttered on his cheeks as he batted his eyes in Dawson's direction.

"God, I hate you."

"I live for those words," Brian laughed

Dawson snapped the headphones back into place, closing his eyes to block everything out. The mattress sank down as Brian sat on the edge of the bed, his elbow resting in the middle of Dawson's chest. Heaving a sigh, Dawson turned off the audio and opened his eyes. "Go the hell away."

"Your girlfriend called last night while you were out filming."

"My who? Joey?"

"That's the one. Said it was Friday at seven and she was wondering if you were going to call and so I told her you were out screaming at some blonde who couldn't manage to get anything right, even something as simple as a blow job."

"You son of a bitch!" Dawson shoved at Brian's elbow, not moving it an inch.

"And then I told her you'd get back to her as soon as you were finished going down on the professor to get a decent grade in the class, since your film is going to suck ass completely." Brian smiled at Dawson's face, red with frustration as he struggled to push Brian off of him. "Then, I told her she sounded pretty hot and I asked her if she was flying out here any time soon, because I'd love to show her what a real man's cock looks like."

"So help me, you said any one of those things to Joey, I'm gonna…"

"And she told me that Pacey had already shown her, thank you very much, but she appreciated the offer."

Dawson stopped moving and Brian stood up, happy to release him. "Joey wouldn't say that."

"I'm just shittin' ya, man. I told her you were out working on the film, and had probably lost track of time." He grinned and hefted himself onto his bunk. "But I told her I'd give you the message and have you call her back."

"One night while you sleep…"

"Don't get fresh with me, Wunderkind. I'm not your type." He looked over at Dawson as he picked up a book and opened it. "I have no intention of fucking your soulmate."

Dawson grabbed the cell phone Jack and Jen had given him and looked pointedly at Brian. "Can't you read somewhere else?"

"Jesus, Dawson, just go talk to her in the bathroom. That way you can jerk off in private."

"You're such a…"

"Ah, ah, ah. Don't go insulting a man who could snap you like a twig without a second thought. Now go call your best friend's ex-girlfriend, because I don't want to talk to you anymore."

~**~  
Dawson closed his eyes tight and forced the breath out of his lungs, anger causing his hands to shake. He should be used to it by now, he thought. Should be used to Brian being an asshole and using what little he'd gleaned from the showings in class and from the videotapes he'd watched - stolen and watched - in their room, against him.

Blowing out another breath, he snapped the phone open and pushed one. "Potter Bed and Breakfast."

"Potter bed and breakfast where the blueberry pancakes melt in your mouth like pieces of heaven?"

"Not right now. Bessie's making them." Joey laughed. "Hey, Dawson."

"Hey. Sorry. About yesterday."

"It's okay. I was kind of excited, actually. I thought maybe you were out on a date or something, living the high life of Hollywood excitement. A movie premiere or some restaurant opening. I was expecting some autograph of the starlet of the moment in the mail."

"No. No date."

"Oh."

"You? Dating?"

"Me?" She laughed. "Unless you count breaking the finger of some old letch at the Yacht Club who was busy pinching my ass and thereby losing my job a date, no. I'm dateless."

"Wow. I miss out on all the fun."

"I'd have been happy to let it be your ass he was pinching."

Dawson smiled, trying not to hear Brian's voice in his head. "How's everyone doing?"

"Everyone's gone." Joey pushed her hair back behind her ear and stared out at the lawn where Bodie and Alexander were running around while Bessie tossed the Frisbee at them. "Well, everyone who's anyone."

"He hasn't called?" Damn. He hadn't meant to mention him.

"How's Hollywood? Have you bought me lots of trashy souvenirs that I'll treasure forever? Or at least until Mrs. Ryan has another church rummage sale." Joey sighed. "Oh, wait. Mrs. Ryan is gone."

Dawson heard her sigh. "You lonely, Jo? I could fly you out here and we could have a crazy LA weekend. We'd do the sights, see all the stars homes. We could stalk Spielberg. Or Cameron or Tarantino. We could get the drunks on Sunset to buy us alcohol and then plunge off the Hollywood sign. Or…what did they do on 90210?"

"How's your movie?"

"Good." He watched couples walk across the Quad, hand in hand, arm in arm. He wondered briefly about Gretchen, wondered even more about the kiss he'd shared with Joey. "Do you miss me?"

"Miss my best friend?" She laughed, a soft sound, almost hollow. "Nah. Not in the slightest."

"He misses you. Your best friend," He added quickly, hoping she wouldn't think he meant the other 'he' in her life.

"Good. Maybe that'll make him come home sooner than Christmas. You rat bastard."

Dawson laughed as she did, her voice coming alive again. Was it a bad sign that she sounded happiest when she was insulting him? Was that how she and Pacey had begun? "I should go, Jo. Don't want to waste all my minutes on you."

"Of course not. Not when there are all those hot chicks swarming around with their phone numbers scrawled on the back of matchbooks just waiting for you."

"You make me want to jump off a cliff, Jo."

"Then my job is done." She paused and he could hear her smile. Missed her. "Bye, Dawson. Don't behave quite so much, okay? Get out there and have some fun?"

"Without you? I wouldn't dream of it." He smiled in return. "I miss you, Jo."

"Night, Dawson."

He stared up at the sweet, California sunlight. "Night, Jo."

~**~  
Dawson stood at the back of the room, watching the audience. There were no disgruntled murmurs like there had been at the screening of his Witch Island documentary over a year ago; but there also wasn't the stunned silence he remembered from Nikki's showing.

The film reel flickered, the soft slapping sound his only comfort in the silent room. The projectionist snapped it off as the professor hit the lights. He didn't glance at Dawson, instead surveying the rest of the room. "Well?"

Brian looked over his shoulder at Dawson before raising his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Abbott?"

"I think it was clear where the director's sympathies lay."

"And is that good or bad?"

"Both."

The professor sighed. "Elaborate, please. I'm not in the mood to pry your opinion out of you."

The rest of the class laughed as Brian shifted in his chair. "It's fine if the director's sympathies are in tune with the audience's. But I don't think any of us gave a shit about the director's stereotypical hero."

"There's something wrong with a hero?"

"No. But the hero wasn't the star of the movie. His story was flat, boring. The B-story, or what was relegated to the B-story was far more compelling. That's the story I cared about."

As many others in the audience murmured agreement, the professor held Brain with a look. "So your comments for our erstwhile director?"

"He…or she needs to get away from this type of story. He needs to do something that he has no personal emotional feelings for. Because he's obviously been hurt in a similar situation, and he apparently can't see the whole story."

"Anyone else?"

Similar comments started raining down and Dawson stopped listening. The professor finally stopped the discussion and looked pointed at Dawson. "Well, Herr Director."

Dawson stood up, forcing himself not to take a defensive stance. "So, bad characterization, misplaced hero worship, and I completely missed the compelling story. Did I do anything right?"

"Yeah," Brian nodded. "You got a sense of humor. Stop doing romantic angst, Dawson. Do an action film. Do a western. Do a horror film. Do a comedy. Hell, do a gay coming of age film. Just back away from your own personal traumas."

~**~  
Dawson stared up at the statuary that decorated the building, gargoyles looking back down at him, filled with horror and recriminations.

"They talkin' to you, Wunderkind?"

"Would it help if they were?"

"Going insane does wonders for the career from what I hear. Look at 'What Ever Happened to Baby Jane,' "Sunset Boulevard,' 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,' 'Fight Club'…"

"None of those actually had directors that were insane."

"Damn. You're right."

Dawson rubbed the back of his neck, not looking at his roommate. "Your film was good. Better than."

"Thanks."

"Everyone seemed to like it. Or be amazed by it. Something along those lines."

"Love what you do, Wunderkind, but don't do who you love. Trust me, putting your love story on the screen only pisses off the girl of your dreams."

"You speak from experience?"

"I made this documentary, second thing I ever made. And the person I was desperately in love with agreed to be my subject. And I lost complete focus. I tried to script everything so that we'd fall in love. I tried to make it obvious, through what I put on film, that I was the guy for him."

"Him?"

Brian shook his head, laughing. "So he and I, who had been best friends all our lives were suddenly strangers, dating and lost and hurting each other."

"But you got over it and became a much better filmmaker than I am."

"No, Dawson, I didn't get over it. But I did grow up. And, while it might always color my work, it sure isn't the only story I want to tell. Or live." Brian sighed. "Did you go out once while you were here? Sightsee? Be a tourist? Go to Disneyland? Universal Studios? Get laid?"

"I've been busy."

"Right. Too busy making movies to have a life. Trust me, Wunderkind, have a little life in your life, and you'll have real life in your movies. And if your little princess back home isn't putting out, or if you're really more jealous that she got to fuck that Pacey guy instead of you, find new friends.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Brian shook his head, "Not a damn thing."

"I'm straight," Dawson reminded him.

"Sure you are. So why the fuck are all your films about this guy, this best friend, betraying you?"

"It's a story as old as Jesus and Judas."

"Oh, Christ," Brian couldn't help but laugh. "Because you need more of a God complex. It's got nothing to do with that story, Wunderkind. It's got everything to do with the fact that you're not pissed off that Pacey went out with her, that he fucked her. You're pissed off that she got what you want. What you can't have." Before Dawson could protest, Brian went on. "Maybe you don't want to fuck him, Wunderkind, but you sure as hell want to own him."

~**~  
"Can I ask you a favor?"

The woman at the desk shoved a handful of strawberry blonde hair back from her face as she looked over at Dawson. "Just asking and bothering me will cost you coffee and chocolate."

"I came prepared." He set a bar of dark chocolate and a large Starbucks cup in front of her.

She popped the top off the cup and inhaled the heady aroma. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I'm…"

"Actually, scratch that." She sipped the steaming liquid. "I don't care who you are. What do you want?"

"I need a script."

"Yeah. So does someone who can actually do something for me."

"I'll pay you a thousand dollars for it."

"Ooh. Let me put Miramax on hold."

"Look," Dawson sat opposite her. "I have some basic ideas. I just need someone to help me flesh them out. I asked around. You're the best. You need the money."

"And so you have every intention of buying me and the lowly woman that I am, I'd better not argue?"

"That's not what I said."

"No, but it's sure as hell what you implied. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm not for sale, and I've got an exam in an hour and a half. So ship off, whoever you are."

"I'm Dawson Leery."

"I don't give a flying fuck."

He grabbed her book from her hand and turned it around so that it was facing him. "I'll quiz you. I'll do whatever you need. Please. I need your help."

"Fuck off." She wrenched the book from out of his hand with one hand, slapping him with the other. "Neanderthal."

Dawson bent his head and sighed. "Okay, we got off to a bad start. I need your help. And I don't want to insult you, but I'm willing to pay to work with the best, and everyone assures me that's you. I need someone to go over a script with me. I won't argue, I won't question. I'll make any changes you suggest. I'll help you study, I'll keep you in chocolate and coffee until you become so addicted to the caffeine your body composition changes. Please? I'm desperate."

"More so than you know." She shoved her hair back again. "I fucking hate directors."

"Well, if it makes it any easier, I'm apparently not much of one."

"Actually, no. That doesn't help at all. Give me your dorm number, your phone number and get the hell away from me."

"You'll do it?"

"I'll think about it."

~**~  
Dawson opened the door and didn't move. Her strawberry blonde hair was still in her face. "Okay. I want the money up front. You don't say a fucking word to me. You let me read what you have, you do what I say. If you disagree with me about anything, I take the money and leave."

"I get no chance to say no thank you?"

"If you don't agree that I'm improving your script by the end of the night, I'll leave no questions asked and you can keep your money. But I take all my revisions with me and I see anything resembling them on film, your ass is going to be in court faster than you can say cut."

"You're incredibly charming."

"You're a prehistoric dick, only without the charm. Back off."

"Are you just going to hurl abuse at me or do you have a name I can curse and rue the day we met?"

"Angela."

"Dawson."

"Yeah. You mentioned that. I still don't care. Where's your script and where's my check?"

Dawson pointed to his desk before sitting on his bed and grabbing his briefcase. He dug around in it until he found his checkbook. "Angela what?"

"Martin."

"Right."

"Page one needs to go completely. It's boring exposition. You can set it up with a long shot. Make sure you've got good camera stock. I don't want crappy color. This is going to require boldness."

"Any weird spelling on that?" His voice was tight as he asked the question.

"No. Who is this guy? Gary Cooper? You're writing a satire, right? You want this to make some sort of statement about the vulgarities of good and evil, is that what you're trying to get across? You want to vilify this guy that you obviously have issues with, so you're setting him up to die brilliantly, thus mocking your whole intent, right?"

"He's not going to die brilliantly."

"By killing him, your hero becomes exactly what the other guy is. You've seen High Noon, right? Not a happy film." She crossed a few lines out. "And he is going to die brilliantly."

"This isn't going to work out."

"Look, I know you probably identify with the hero. Probably think you're hot shit and the guy who rushes in to save the day. Yeah, well, that guy's about as hot and exciting as day old dog vomit. You're boring. You're boring your audience to tears. They don't care about you. They care about the guy who's done something wrong. Done something bad."

"Not all of them."

"You want them to fall at your hero's feet?"

"It'd be nice for a change."

"Fine." She tapped her front teeth with her eraser then started scribbling in the margins of the script. "First of all, he's got to be more colorful. Not this bland, dishwater blond crap. Make him dark. You see Hamlet with Kenneth Branaugh?"

"Yes."

"Completely unconventional approach to the work. Whereas the rest of the world makes it this somber, dark set; he made it bright and shining. Colorful and colliding with the actual words. Hamlet was the only dark thing in the movie and even that was offset by the bold blonde of his hair. This guy…make him dark. Tanned and bronzed. Bronzed like a god. And give him a scar." She ran her finger across her chin. "Here. Like Harrison Ford. And dress him in black."

"He's the hero."

"Yeah. And you're a traditionalist with his outdated morals and ideals sticking out of his ass. You dress him in white, no one cares. They know he's the hero, the victor. You make him just as hard-bitten as the bad guy, no one knows for sure who to vote for. Both of them have mystery, a past." She chewed on the end of her pencil. "You seen any of Clint Eastwood's movies? Ever? You seen a movie made after 1945?"

"Yes." His words were terse now, the check caught between his hands, his fingers poised to rip.

"You ever see anything that didn't have a happy ending?"

"Of course."

"Yeah. It shows in your complete inability to see drama." She scratched out several more lines. "Look…" she grabbed the check out of his hand and read his name off of it, "Dawson. You want to make a movie that shows you're not a complete twit, am I right?"

"I…"

"And you don't want to be humiliated like I know you must have been if this is what you think is compelling. So just let me do my work and sit on the bed over there like a good boy. You won't regret it."

"I already do."

"That's because you've only heard my thoughts. You haven't read anything. Now, sit down and shut up."

"I…"

"I know you obviously have female authority issues, so I'll tell you this only once more. Sit down. Shut up. And do not, under any circumstances, bother me until I tell you I'm ready to listen to you whine. Got it?"

"…"

"Good." She dropped his chin and moved back to the desk, snapping on his laptop. He was about to protest, flushing with embarrassment as the screen came alive with a picture he'd taken of Joey on the beach before he'd left. She was lying on the sand, her arms up above her head, the bikini top pulling upwards just slightly. "Wow. Well, I guess you can always fall back on your career as a porn photographer. Nice non-consensual photo you have there."

"How do you know…"

"Because women who have that look aren't posing half naked for their boyfriends or anyone else. She's in another world. And most likely, with another guy." Angela found the program she wanted and called it up. "Now shut up."

~**~  
"Dawson?"

He muttered softly, opening his eyes. Strawberry blonde hair fell in his face and he brushed it away in surprise. "Gah!"

"Heh." Angela pulled away and dropped papers on his chest. "You sleep like the dead."

"I haven't slept much lately."

"Yeah. Slaving over that script must have cost you a beauty rest or two." She watched him with satisfaction as he started reading through the script she'd written. "Not that it was worth it, but I'm sure you thought it was."

"This is…"

"It shouldn't be too hard to film. I've got some time this weekend, I can co-ordinate the script for you. I've got some friends in the acting department. They'd probably be willing to help out as long as you feed them."

"I can do that."

She grinned as he didn't even bother to stop reading, his eyes skimming over the words as if in a rush to absorb them. "They weren't lying when they said I was the best, Dawson."

"No. No, they weren't."

She took the script from his hand and tossed it onto the floor and then unfastened her jeans and kicked them to the floor. She wriggled out of her panties and moved onto the bed, straddling his knees. "I wrote you an amazing script."

"Y…yeah," his voice broke as her fingers found the zipper of his shorts and tugged it down.

"Always makes me horny. Which is why I wasn't going to do this, because I have about zero desire to fuck you. But I like a challenge." She tugged his shorts down, not surprised to find he was wearing briefs. Pulling those down as well, she glanced down at his penis. "And apparently that's a good thing."

"I really don't…"

Her hand curved around his cock and started stroking it, not surprised as Dawson's expression remained fixed with fear and shock. Closing her eyes, she sighed and dropped her voice low. "You want to get the best of him, don't you? You want to rub his nose in it, show him that you're the better man, don't you?"

"I…"

"You want to prove to him that you don't need to be like him to succeed. You think that you've got everything you need and you want to show him that's the case, don't you?" She smiled as his body responded to her words, his eyes closed as he started to relax. "How badly do you want your hero to shove that gun in his face and pull the trigger? See his mouth wrapped around the barrel like he's on his knees sucking your cock, begging you for mercy."

Dawson's low moan filled the room as Angela released him, grabbing the condom she'd set on the side of the bed and sliding it onto Dawson's erection. "You want him to beg, don't you? You want him to be subservient to your whim. You want him to admit you're the best, the better man. You want to win, don't you, Dawson?"

She slid onto his body, moving slowly over him, her fingers firm against her clit, knowing it would be necessary if she had any intention of getting anything from the experience. "Fuck him, Dawson. He doesn't deserve to be your friend. Doesn't deserve to be around you. Doesn't deserve to breathe your air. Just imagine yourself up there on the screen, you hand wrapped around that pistol, holding it in his mouth. Imagine his eyes staring up at you, weak and needy. Imagine having all that power over him."

Dawson's hips shot up as he came, filling the condom. She stopped moving, still straddling him as her fingers moved over her clit. Her words had ceased when her movements had and she bit her lip as she pushed herself over the edge. Dawson stared up at her, focused on the school logo that ran across her chest.

Gasping for breath, she pulled away from him, slipping into her clothes once more. "I'll see you on Saturday."

"That…that'd be great."

She picked up the script and set it on his desk. "Dawson?"

"Yeah?"

"Seek professional help, okay? Because you've got some serious issues with this guy, whoever he is. And one of these days, according to the psych test I took this afternoon, you're gonna snap and it's not going to be a metaphorical gun in his mouth."

"I'm not…"

"And should you end up in that situation? You're gonna end up dead. Because between your script and the very basic tenets of psychology? This Pacey guy could clean the floor with your ass."

~**~  
"Well, well, well. As a special treat, Mr. Leery has decided to grace us with another film." The professor ignored the groans that seemed to permeate the room. "Now, just because we're a little film-ed out, doesn't mean you shouldn't give it the respect it just might deserve. Although we'll all just have to reserve our opinions on that." He looked toward the back of the room before snapping off the lights. "Mr. Leery? You're on."

He could read the silence by now. He'd heard enough of them throughout the course of the class. The silence that proceeded laughter, both honest and mocking. The silence of horror. The silence of disbelief. The silence of respect.

This didn't sound like any of them. He tried to breathe, but found it hard. He'd stayed up for three days straight, working on plotting out the camera angles, every last detail. He'd storyboarded, he'd blocked. He'd worked with the actors and Angela, getting every last movement to be exactly what she wrote, exactly what he saw in his head.

He'd watched her afterwards, frightened of what she'd said, what they'd done. He was no longer a virgin. He'd lost something he'd held onto, through no grand design, to someone who'd gotten him off by talking about Pacey.

Shaking his head, he stared instead at the screen, watching the drama unfold. It was black and white, even though everything was bathed in color. The hero was exactly his opposite, wearing dirt brown clothes, covered in beaten and battered garments that had smelled monstrously. He looked like a beggar, a miscreant. The man facing him on the long stretch of deserted highway was dressed impeccably. Both heroes, both villains.

The highway seemed to go on forever, neither man in his element. Away from the city where they made their home, out of their natural habitat. The homeless man, the close-up of his eyes, glinting brilliant blue in the sunlight. His teeth shocking white as he smiled grimly.

A quick zoom around and they were in the face of the other man. His eyes were brown, but just as alive, his smile just as gleaming. Sunlight drenched the colors until they washed out completely.

You never saw the gun. Never saw the bullet. Never knew where they came from. Was it in his wallet? Near his heart where the cell phone so clearly showed through? Was it underneath the shawl of tattered plastic he wore? The sound echoed in the silent room, shattering the peace and causing several of them to gasp.

Both men stood, blood pooling at their feet. Neither was falling, neither was holding a gun. He didn't know what either represented; glad that neither was him, worried that they both were. Silence.

Close up.

Blue eyes, vivid and alive and laughing as if they knew some ancient secret of virility and honesty and freedom. Brown eyes, deep with mystery and knowledge yet undiscovered. The blood kept moving inward, heading toward the center of the screen, so red it was almost orange, the color reflecting strangely off the debris that floated in its shallow depth.

Both men fell to their knees.

Close up of the blood, running nowhere.

Silence.

The sound of film slapping broke it and the lights came on. The professor was standing next to the switch and he looked directly at Dawson. "What did you learn from this little David Lynchian experience of yours, Mr. Leery?"

"That I'm a better director than I am a writer. That the secret is to surround yourself with others who know what they're doing, especially if you don't." Dawson smiled. "And I learned that I don't know much."

"Very well. That's the end of our summer session. I'll see some of you in the fall, I would imagine. Something I look forward to with a strange kind of dread."


End file.
